


Perception

by mylittleredgirl



Category: Holby City
Genre: Episode Related, F/F, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 02:48:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9155746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylittleredgirl/pseuds/mylittleredgirl
Summary: Serena falls in love with all five senses, even if she doesn’t quite realize it.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wonderwanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderwanda/gifts).



> For my lovely and patient Berena secret santa recipient, wonderwanda!

 

~sight~

 

She spends more time thinking about Bernie’s hair than she probably should. It’s exactly none of Serena’s business, of course, whether her co-lead even _owns_ a hairbrush, let alone uses it at the regular intervals one is expected to in the civilized world. She must dye it, surely, a woman of their age, and for her to spend that kind of time and effort and then show up to the office like she stepped out of the shower, ran her hands through it, and called it good…

Well, it’s none of her business.

But it bothers her – and when something bothers her, Serena’s like a dog with a bone, unable to leave it be and walk away until she’s figured out why.

Perhaps – _perhaps_ – she’s worried about her, a little, ever since news of her divorce and everything that precipitated it made its way across the hospital. Serena’s never quite sure how to offer without it seeming like pity – and she’s got plenty on her plate besides, what with Jason and all – but she wonders if there’s something she ought to be _doing_ for Bernie. A housewarming gift of some kind, for the apartment Bernie described only as “a month-to-month place, you know.”

Serena doesn’t know, so she pictures it as the flat Elinor considered for her second year of uni that Serena rejected on sight – drab and cold, the bedroom door half off its hinges.

She wonders if she ought to loan her some dishes. A flowering plant to brighten up the place. A hair dryer.

She dismisses all of it, of course. Curls her hands into fists when an especially wayward lock of blonde hair makes her fingers itch to tuck it into place so that Serena can quit _staring_ at it and get back to work.

 

~touch~

 

The first time she places a hand on Bernie’s arm to get her attention, Bernie jumps half a foot in the air.

Serena is just as startled as Bernie. Bernie’s so steady, usually. Serena has never once seen her focus slip or her hand shake in surgery, no matter how many alarms are blaring around her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“No, please,” Bernie says, shaking her head with a wry chuckle. “It’s not you. Did you need me for something?”

Serena makes a mental note to keep her hands to herself where Bernie Wolfe is concerned.

She fails on a fairly regular basis. She never noticed until then how often she touches the members of her team – to encourage them, to reassure them, to stop them (stop Fletch, specifically) from moving too fast. They work in close quarters and have their hands on patients all day long; it’s only natural that they bump up against each other as often as they do.

Bernie doesn’t ask her to stop. Smiles at her, even, after she flinches, this shy and intimate expression that may be why Serena can’t seem to stop touching her in the first place. Bernie reminds her a little of the barn cats that used to patrol her great-uncle’s farm. She spent a whole summer offering up bits of meat she’d pocketed at the table, luring them closer and closer until by August every last one of them would eat from her fingers.

That’s why she keeps touching her even when she doesn’t have to. Catches Bernie’s eye first when she can, so she’s not surprised. Feels accomplished – feels _delighted_ – the first time she touches Bernie’s arm and feels no tension, no resistance, only familiar warmth. The first time Bernie touches Serena the same way, a casual gesture that’s anything but, coming from her.

That’s not why she insists on massaging the knots from Bernie’s back. That’s medical – and also the very least Serena can do after snapping at her all day.

It feels like victory, though, Bernie allowing Serena’s hands on her for so long, allowing her to slip under the hem of her scrub top to rest on the bare skin of her back.

Serena drags it out as long as she dares.

 

~sound~

 

She’s caught sometimes by how Bernie says her name.

Enjoys saying Bernie’s too. Enjoys being on a first-name basis, being friends as well as colleagues.

She asks once why she prefers Bernie to Berenice, hoping Bernie will tell her where it comes from, that she’ll get a story to help imagine her friend as a child – probably serious and studious and bossy, head full of big ideas and sunny blonde curls, too small to bear such a weighty name.

Bernie only gives her a surprised look. “Wouldn’t you?”

She wouldn’t, though. Her mother used to say that as soon as she could speak, Serena strongly corrected anyone who dared call her _Rena_. She thought it wasn’t regal enough, as the story went. If she were a queen, people would call her by her entire name.

She’s grateful for that extra syllable now, for how her name holds Bernie’s attention that much longer. How it sounds from her mouth, full of promise, like a gift Serena can’t figure out how to unwrap.

She thinks perhaps Bernie has noticed the way it affects her, because she says it a lot, even when she doesn’t have to. _Serena_ , in Bernie’s voice. Elegant and benevolent and powerful, like Serena’s best self.

She can’t remember how it sounded before.

 

~taste~

 

It’s Friday night and they’re drinking, not the kind of drinking they do among colleagues at Albie’s and then drive home, but _drinking_.

They’re at a cozy wine bar on the river Serena hasn’t been to in years, all wood posts and overstuffed armchairs. Expensive, like most places in the harbourside district, but Serena’s not checking prices after a hard week of hospital politics and Bernie’s divorce litigation and too many lost patients. She’d gladly spend through an entire paycheck to have the world go this soft and fuzzy around her, to see Bernie smiling at her through full glasses of wine.

There are separate menus for drinks and food and dessert, and they’ve partaken heavily in all three in the hours since they arrived. It’s one of those nights where everything looks good, and by ten Serena is stuffed and drunk and _happy_. She’s going to end her week from hell as a sloppy mess in the back of a cab, barely remembering her address, without a lick of regret.

“Better not let him near me again,” Serena says, about Marcus, punctuating it with a wave of her glass that sloshes just a little wine over the side. “I’d really give him what for.”

“I wish you would!”

Serena gets lost in the fantasy for a moment, what she’d say to Marcus _right now_ if she got him alone. That he’s an idiot, a cruel and nasty _idiot_ – but she’d find a better word for it. She’d tell him that any man who poisons his children against their mother doesn’t deserve to be _called_ a man. That he ought to tuck tail, slink away, and be nothing but grateful that he had a woman like Bernie for as long as he did. The only bit she says out loud is: “What a _tosser_.”

“A- _men_ ,” and they clink glasses.

Bernie’s cheeks are rosy, her face open with shared laughter, and Serena adores her, _adores_ her. Can’t fathom how lucky she is, at her age, to meet a friend like this – she can’t even remember the last time. She wants to learn every little thing about her, until Serena knows her better than Marcus does, better than anyone else in the world. Never, ever wants to lose this.

Bernie offers up the last of a rich chocolate tart between her fingers. “Last bite?”

Serena groans, says, “Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” but she will, of course she will. She has always enjoyed the sensation of being too full of food, too full of wine, too full of desire, and she’s not sure which one of those three pushes her to lean over and take the chocolate from Bernie’s fingers with her mouth.

Bernie freezes, her mouth going slack. Serena’s tongue brushes the pad of Bernie’s thumb, and the contact sends a shiver all the way through her toes. God, she tastes like _chocolate_.

Serena gulps wine, trying to settle her suddenly racing heart.

“I need some air,” Bernie says, pulling a pack of fags from her handbag. “Do you-?”

Serena shakes her head, feeling entirely drunk. “Go ahead.” She still tastes Shiraz and chocolate, mixing on her tongue.

When Bernie returns, it’s with two glasses of water and an expression so fond it’s like a warm blanket tucked around her shoulders.

Serena forgets much of the evening in the resulting hangover, in the errands and activities of the weekend.

On Monday when she gets to work, there’s a chocolate tart on her desk.

 

~smell~

 

Her office smells different, now that she shares it. She notices it mostly when they’re alternating shifts, when all she sees of Bernie for a few days is hand-scribbled notes and empty coffee cups in the bin.

But it smells like her – as much as anything smells like anything in AAU other than cal-stat and abraisive laundry soap and the sharp bite of disinfectant that speaks of bodily fluids cleaned and covered up.

The hints of dark roast coffee and spiced perfume and smoke that linger after Bernie leaves a room become comforting. Familiar. Serena misses it, going too long without. Notices it whenever she stands behind Bernie to read a patient file over her shoulder, has to tamp down the temptation to breathe deep. To try and separate out the different scents, shampoo from soap from perfume from whatever’s just _Bernie_ underneath. She’s almost got them sorted.

Bernie used to apologize for smoking in front of her, once she took it up again, and while Serena appreciates the consideration, it doesn’t bother her like she thought it would. It gives them a reason to walk the few blocks to Albie’s from the hospital rather than driving, to walk back to the hospital again for their cars, extending the evening.

“It reminds me of my father,” she tells Bernie, because she feels a pressure in her chest to say _something,_ and it’s all too much to say that she’s been looking forward to this walk all day, all _week_. That yesterday, when Bernie was stuck in theatre too late and Serena had to get home for Jason, she felt disappointed for hours. That every time she smells the lingering smoke on her coat, she thinks of Bernie.

Bernie is watching her, intently. Slows to a stop under a streetlight. Serena wonders how much is on her face, how much joy and confusion and longing is on display. How sometimes their friendship feels impossibly, _giddily_ close, and not at all close enough. How Bernie is at once her island in the storm and the storm itself.

“Tell me about him,” Bernie says. Tilts her head in the direction they were walking. Lets Serena set the pace.

For some reason the first thing Serena can think to say is: “He would’ve really liked you.”

 

~love~

 

When Bernie kisses her the first time, the room smells like blood. It’s desperate, all despair and exhaustion and Serena feels so much all at once she can’t pull it apart. She spends days and nights trying, rattling around her house trying not to wake Jason, dropping nearly everything she picks up like she’s lost the proper use of her hands.

Their second kiss is fresh air and sunshine and the first sip of morning coffee. Bernie is soft and warm, smells like clean clothes and familiar perfume, and the sound of her breath hitching so close to Serena’s ear is something _wonderful_ , something _perfect_. It feels like Bernie’s every smile is pressed to her lips at once, and Serena falls entirely in love.

What follows is… well, is neither of their finest hours, really. Serena fills the space Bernie left when she panicked off to Ukraine with extra shots of espresso and far too much wine. For one brief, entirely desperate moment, she contemplates taking up smoking – as though it’s the nicotine she’s really missing. She wonders if all the good Bernie brought to her life while she was here can make up for being left in limbo like this.

Decides, eventually, that it can. The next morning there’s an email in her inbox, Ric updating her on the date of Bernie’s return.

Their third kiss is less about love than about Serena staking a claim. She wants to clean the taste of foreign words from Bernie’s mouth, wants to drag them both into the shower and scrub each other clean until they bleed. There are tears in both their eyes when they break apart at the sound of the door handle rattling.

Serena gives Bernie a ride to her flat, after informing Fletch’s smug grin that seeing Jason home is the _very_ _least_ he can do.

The flat is cold, and while Bernie goes through turning on the radiators, Serena blows dust off the kettle and busies herself making tea. The wine Bernie brought for her is on the counter, still covered in paper, but as much as she’d never admit it out loud, Serena’s had enough of that in her absence. She doesn’t want her senses dulled, her inhibitions lowered. As much as she wants to tumble blindly into bed – and oh, she _wants_ to – she doesn’t want their first time tainted with anger and hurt, and she’s still a bit of both.

So she sets them up at Bernie’s tiny kitchen table. They shared take-out here once before, one night when Serena was delaying the twelfth round of an argument with Jason. It feels neutral, but still close enough for their knees to touch.

Bernie all but collapses into the chair across from her. Now that Serena is looking at her, really looking at her, she’s a wreck of dark circles. She’s lost weight, beneath the color Serena assumes is from a tanning bed, since it’s far from sun season where she’s been. “How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

Bernie sucks in a breath, looks at the ceiling. Blinks, like she’s holding back tears. “Fifty-seven days?”

“Ah.” Serena pours the tea and breathes in, slowly, letting soft vanilla and jasmine fill her lungs.

“Serena…” Bernie slides her hand across the table, brushes the side of Serena’s pinkie. “I really am sorry.”

“You should be,” Serena says, but not unkindly. She reaches her hand out, slowly so as not to startle her, and tucks a loose strand of Bernie’s hair behind her ear.

Bernie smirks. Serena wonders how obvious she’s been, all this time, about her fascination with Bernie’s hair, because Bernie pulls out the tie holding the rest of her hair back and leans over on her elbows. Serena runs her fingers through silky strands, brushes her thumb over Bernie’s cheekbone.

“I missed you,” she says, like a great exhale.

Bernie smiles. Her voice is low, and Serena leans in even closer to hear her. “Will you let me make it up to you?”

Serena’s heart speeds up, energy coiling in her belly. Her fingers twitch in Bernie’s hair, aching to pull her close until there’s no space between them. She doesn’t plan to ask, but it comes out anyway: 

“For how long?”

Panics, for a second, that this will send her away again.

But Bernie raises an eyebrow, and the fear is gone in a rush of heat to her cheeks. Serena glares at her. “ _Not_  – you know what I mean.”

Bernie kisses her over the table, easy and full of promise. Pulls back, looks at her with those dark eyes, that  _smile_  Serena thinks she’ll never get tired of, not in her entire life.

“As long as you want.”

 

~end!~

 


End file.
